


just the two of us

by faikitty



Category: Shall We Date?: Obey Me!
Genre: Christmas, Cuddling & Snuggling, Established Relationship, Fluff, Kissing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:28:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28300893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faikitty/pseuds/faikitty
Summary: It is Christmas, and Diavolo has decided to throw a party--one that Menthol does not want to attend. Simp Nest Secret Santa 2020.
Relationships: Belphegor (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!)/Original Character(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	just the two of us

**Author's Note:**

  * For [obeymint](https://archiveofourown.org/users/obeymint/gifts).



> Merry Christmas Minty! I was so excited when I got you as my recipient. I hope I did your lizard justice.

The House of Lamentation is loud.

The House of Lamentation is _always_ loud, is always filled with Leviathan and Mammon yelling, with Lucifer lecturing, with Beelzebub’s stomach growling like a beast. Right now, it is even louder, although the sound comes less from its occupants and more from the sight of the thing, so colorful that it overrides all other senses. Candles line the smooth gray and gold walls, linked together with long garlands of holly. Christmas quilts have been draped over the backs of the couches; red and green pillows rest on the cushions. Above the hearth, where the ever-burning fire blazes as fiercely as ever, someone has even attached a Santa hat to the huge silver dragon. Everything twinkles. Everything shines.

It is _exhausting_.

Menthol sits on one of the couches, legs tucked beneath them and a tail wrapped around their knees. They hold one of the ridiculous Christmas pillows in their lap. They stare blankly into the fireplace, watching the flickering flames form dancing shapes as they try—and fail—to tune out their companion.

“You _have_ to come to the party!” Asmodeus insists. His voice is high, lilting, as he whines his protest. “ _Pleeeease_!” The sound is as bright as the sun and twice as blinding, and Menthol winces. Out of the corner of their eye, they see Asmodeus inch closer on the couch, his lower lip pushed out in a pout and his brows upturned to look as pleading as possible. “Menthol! Are you even listening to me?”

“I told you,” Menthol says, dragging their gaze away from the fire to Asmodeus’s piteous face, “I don’t _want_ to.”

The party. The _Christmas_ party, to take place at the Demon Lord’s Castle. Asmodeus had suggested it, and Diavolo been on board immediately. What better way to learn about other traditions, Diavolo had declared excitedly, than to _experience_ those traditions? It would be a huge party, he had said, where exchange students and demons alike could enjoy each other’s holidays. Menthol had tried to voice their complaints immediately, but Diavolo had already been eagerly going on about decoration ideas and recipes he had heard of. Within a day, the halls of RAD were decorated with a mishmash of items from the human world. Each skeleton-shaped lamp was given a Santa beard; every classroom was given a plant that _looked_ like a poinsettia but that, Satan warned Menthol, would burn their hand if they touched it. Diavolo had even procured a giant Christmas tree from somewhere and had decked it out from top to bottom in such an incredible amount of multicolored lights, red ribbons, and magically glowing ornaments that it made Menthol’s head spin every time they tried to look up at it. Not even the House of Lamentation or Purgatory Hall were spared from the Christmas cheer.

Menthol shuddered to think what the Demon Lord’s Castle must look like.

They were _not_ going to the party.

“But you _have_ to go!” Asmodeus says again. He reaches out and tries to take Menthol’s hand, but they shake it free before he can get a good grip.

Menthol is interrupted before they can argue. “Asmo is right. I’m afraid you don’t have a choice.” Menthol glances over their shoulder to see Lucifer. For all intents and purposes, he looks to be simply passing by, but somehow, Menthol suspects he overheard the entire conversation. “As an exchange student, you have a responsibility to attend any event Diavolo throws.”

Menthol shifts against the arm of the couch so they can better look at Lucifer. “Why?” they push back. “Lord Diavolo wants it to be an ‘exchange of cultures’ or something. I’m not even human.”

Lucifer is unmoved. “Be that as it may, you are still a representative from the human world.” Menthol’s tail twitches in frustration; their eyes narrow slightly, brows furrowing. The expression isn’t large, but it’s enough for Lucifer to catch, and after a moment, he sighs. “I won’t force you to stay the whole time. But you _must_ make an appearance.”

“But—”

“That’s final.” Lucifer’s tone leaves little room for argument; the sight of his back as he walks away closes the space completely. “I expect to see you tonight.”

* * *

Night falls, as it always does.

It finds Menthol beneath pastel blankets, thick and soft but not protective enough to obscure them from the darkness. Tail pulled in close, horns jabbing the cloth, they hide, a small shape in the middle of the bed. But the night still creeps in, heavy and oppressive; it slips cold fingers beneath the covers, tugs at Menthol’s wrists and tail, presses against their eyelids until they have no choice but to admit it is here.

It would be better to spend the night like this, Menthol thinks. It may be cold. It may be lonely. But it is preferable by far to spending it rubbing elbows with the demon elite. They can see the Demon Lord’s Castle now, shining brighter than a star atop a tree, filled with guests from all across the Devildom, each one eager to catch a glimpse of the foreign exchange students they have heard so much about.

Menthol snuggles in more securely beneath the blankets. Maybe they’ll get lucky. Maybe if they stay here the night will simply pass. They can claim they dozed off and slept through the party. Lucifer will be angry, but he can do no worse than giving them a lecture, and a few hours of listening to him drone on and on about disappointing Diavolo sounds better than the same amount of time spent at the party. Maybe—

 _Knock knock_.

Menthol jerks their head out from beneath the blankets as a rapping sound comes from their door. They’ll pretend not to have heard it. Yes. That’s a good idea. They tuck their head back in, press their balled up fists to their ears.

“Minty?”

Oh.

That’s low—sending the one demon who can get Menthol to do anything.

With a sigh, they detangle the covers from their limbs and make their way over to the door to let Belphegor in.

He doesn’t look like himself.

It takes Menthol a moment to recognize him. Belphegor’s hair, frosted like snow, is pushed away from his eye, slicked back behind a pointed ear. Even with the dark circles of constant sleep deprivation, his eyes are bright, the color of an autumn sunset (sometimes Menthol wonders: is there no sun in the Devildom because it would feel threatened by Belphegor’s eyes?). His eyes are amused, too, in a tired sort of way, especially when Menthol takes a startled step back, gaze running over Belphegor’s body. Instead of his normally soft, pajama-like clothes, he wears a suit, freshly pressed with starched black pants and shined shoes. The whole outfit is black, but with a filigree of purple lining the collar and a perfectly knotted tie the color of his sin. He looks _good_.

He just doesn’t look like himself.

“Quit your staring,” Belphegor says. On his face is a grin, like he’s sharing a private joke with himself. He extends an arm. “Lucifer sent me to fetch you. Ready to go?”

Menthol doesn’t say anything. They fix their gaze on the floor with a nod and take the offered arm, allowing Belphegor to pull them from the room and lead them through the halls of the House of Lamentation. Maybe they were wrong about all of this. If even the Avatar of Sloth is willing to go to such lengths, maybe they’re being selfish. Belphegor hates making an effort, after all. If even he isn’t putting up a fight over this party, Menthol must be being ridiculous. They probably shouldn’t have complained so much. Maybe the party will be fun, they think, even though the thought of being there for hours makes them feel sick. They’ll meet lots of new demons. That could be a good thing. Maybe.

“Minty.” Belphegor’s soft voice pulls Menthol from their thoughts. They’ve stopped, they realize. “Look up.”

Menthol does.

Before them is the door to the attic.

Menthol glances sideways at Belphegor. It must be some sort of trick, right? Someone must have cast a spell on the attic door to connect it to the castle. Belphegor is going to open it, and they are going to step through it into a mess of blinding lights and deafening music and chatter. Sure enough, Belphegor reaches out, turns the handle, and the door swings inward to reveal—

The attic. Nothing more. Nothing less.

When Menthol walks inside, they realize Belphegor has made an attempt to decorate it for Christmas. But instead of the gaudy disaster in the rest of the house, the attic is simple. Quaint. Belphegor has tossed strands of soft white lights over the exposed beams of the ceiling. A few more are draped over the high wooden headboard on the bed. Sparkling, silver tinsel hangs from the warmly glowing lanterns; a few pieces have already fallen onto the floor, or, Menthol considers, Belphegor simply threw them there. The decorations are sparse, tossed haphazardly over the room, but coming from Belphegor, it is as if he put together the room with expert precision.

“ _Finally_ ,” Belphegor breathes, closing the door behind them. He collapses onto the bed, kicking off his shoes and sprawling out like a starfish on the sheets. He runs his fingers through his hair, shakes it free until his bangs fall messily over his eye as usual. The suffocating tie is quick to go as well, flung off somewhere in the ever-present clutter on the wooden floor. “That felt _awful_. Next time I decide to trick Lucifer, remind me not to go to these lengths.”

Menthol can only stare, walking quietly through the room. “…what is this?”

Belphegor yawns and rolls onto his side to watch as Menthol looks at the decorations. “I told Lucifer I would fetch you,” he says, “and I did. I never said where I would _take_ you.”

Menthol is drawn to the shine of the tinsel; they touch it lightly, watching the light flicker off the silver strands as it swings slightly. “…you did this for me?” they ask with wonder.

“Don’t get too full of yourself,” Belphegor returns wryly. “I didn’t want to go to the party either. Too much of a pain.”

Menthol can hear the eyeroll in Belphegor’s voice, but they hear something else, too. The truth, buried beneath the sarcasm. If Belphegor had only wanted to escape the festivities, he wouldn’t have taken the time to dress the attic with lights and tinsel. Nor would he have bothered to collect Menthol in the first place, let alone take them here with him. He did this because he wanted to spend a quiet night alone with Menthol. He did this to make them happy.

“You can be surprisingly sweet sometimes,” Menthol teases. It takes some effort to pull their gaze away from the tinsel, but when they do, they find Belphegor’s small, subconscious smile just as mesmerizing. His face flushes faintly, and he flops onto his back to stare up at the ceiling.

“Don’t say that,” he complains. “It’s gross.”

Menthol laughs. “It’s true though.” They pad over to the bed, sitting next to Belphegor and leaning over to grin down at him. “Who knew you were such a sweetheart?”

Belphegor glares up at Menthol. “You take that back right now,” he growls.

In an instant, they have switched places. Menthol finds himself blinking up into Belphegor’s narrowed eyes, his hands pressed to the mattress on either side of their head, holding them in place. His frown says he is angry; the pink tint to his cheeks interrupts to say he is embarrassed. Menthol only laughs again, eyes going half-lidded and pleased. “If you want me to shut up,” they murmur, “you’ll have to make me.”

Belphegor can’t keep a straight face at that. He snorts, but he does as he is asked, ducking down to press a kiss to Menthol’s smile. His lips are warm, soft and gentle like the sleep that is always laced through his voice. Kissing Belphegor is easy; it’s natural, like falling asleep, or falling in love, and Menthol has done both with him now. Their lips part, breath stills, and a week of stress falls away in the heartbeat of a kiss, leaving them on a quiet, content sound.

Menthol doesn’t pull away to speak. They simply bump their nose lightly against Belphegor’s and breathe against his lips, “Thank you for this.”

Belphegor doesn’t pull away to speak either; he doesn’t speak at all, only kisses Menthol again, long and soft.

To spend the night alone with Belphegor—that is all Menthol truly needs.


End file.
